


Fairytale Endings

by anenko



Category: Ginger Snaps (2000 2004)
Genre: F/F, Ginger Snaps Ficathon, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-07
Updated: 2004-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenko/pseuds/anenko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost has everything she has ever wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairytale Endings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pruegirl17](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pruegirl17).



> Requested scenario: _A Ghost/Brigitte/Ginger triangle. I don't care how you do it, be it slash or just friendship. condition: Angst!_

Sometimes--only sometimes--Ghost feels lonely. She listens to Brigitte growl, flinches and bites her knuckles in delight as Brigitte throws herself against the trapdoor, and sometimes--only sometimes--wishes that things had turned out differently.

She doesn't understand, at first. She has everything she had ever dreamt of: she is the dark mistress to Brigitte's loyal beast; she is power, and vengeance, and a law unto herself. She is the heroine of an old-style fairy tale, of her favourite comic book, of the cult classic horror movies her grandmother had forbidden her from watching. The bones of her enemies lay broken and scattered below her feet, and she is content, except when she is not.

Ghost has everything that she has ever wanted, but sometimes--only sometimes--she wakes during the night, and remembers Brigitte: remembers the way things were, the way they might have been. She flushes and shivers beneath her blankets at the memory of Brigitte wrapped around her: breasts pressed to her back, arm casual over her hip, knees hooked behind Ghost's. Brigitte, warm, and comforting, and *human,* and the memory shouldn't make her ache so, because Brigitte is here, and *hers,* and her loyal beast howls and tears at the floorboards when Ghost comes to her in the darkness.

She is the dark heroine of her own fantasy, and that is all she has ever wanted. That is all she wants, and she can't even begin to understand how little she has, not until she wakes to the sound of Brigitte's silence. The house is silent, still and dark, and there is a girl sitting on the edge of Ghost's bed. Her hair is red, her lips darker, and her teeth as sharp as her smile. She slides outwards on hands and knees; breasts, and hair, and the beaded claw hung about her neck swaying in time. There is the sudden pressure of cool fingertips at Ghost's throat, and breath that smells of rotting things feathering against her cheek.

Ghost isn't afraid, not at all, maybe just a little, and she tries not to squirm at the feeling of nails, sharp and thick, against her pulse. The girlcreature straddling Ghost's thighs leans forward, her hair a thick curtain around their faces, so close that Ghost can see the glint of red in her eyes. This close, the scent of old blood is overwhelming. Ghost breathes deeply, thrilled and terrified.

There is a low rumble in the girlcreature's voice. A wolf in girl's clothing, and Ghost knows who she is, knows even before the girlcreature says: "You have something of mine--and I've never been any good at sharing."

From the cellar, from far away, from distance unimaginable, Brigitte howls. Outside her window the moon shakes, and the girlcreature--(Ginger, Ghost thinks, Ginger: a picture in an otherwise empty wallet, salvaged from Brigitte's jeans, torn and bloody)--sinks her teeth into Ghost's pulse, and pulls, rips, *tears*--and Ghost wakes, gasping into the morning light with the memory of blood pulsing from her shredded neck.

The story is over, she's claimed her happily-ever-after, and it's not fair that everything change now. The girlcreature hasn't learned the same stories, doesn't know that the heroine's happily-ever-after is absolute, and suddenly she is everywhere: she is a shadow on the wall as Ghost moves about the house; she is a deeper rumble beneath the squeal of the shower pipers; the phantom click of claws against the floor. She mocks Ghost from the confines of a tattered snapshot, face held close to Brigitte's.

The picture captivates Ghost: Brigitte and Ginger, so close they might be sharing a single breath between them. Something like a revelation curls around the edges of her thoughts--almost, almost there, never quite. Never quite there, but the girlcreature is--brought to this place by the Brigitte-who-was, and to this time by the Brigitte-who-is--and she hooks her chin over Ghost's shoulder and whispers the feel of Brigitte's skin into her ear, the sound of Brigitte's sighs, the quicksilver flash of her smile. Ghost shivers, and clenches her thighs, and feels Brigitte's smile curve against her cheek.

Ghost has never been innocent--not really, not in the way all little girls are meant to be. Ghost hasn't ever grown up, either, not really, not the way she ought. The girlcreature says that there are things in the world better than power, and vengeance, and her enemies' bones broken and scattered beneath her feet. The girlcreature calls Ghost a fool, says: "she would have done anything for you, willingly, *eagerly.*"

"*Anything,*" Ginger says. Her tongue flicks against Ghost's ear, trails down her neck: wet, and messy, and hungry. Behind her open mouth, sharp teeth are a promise that make Ghost gasp, and curl blunt nails into the palm of her hands. The girlcreature's wrist is an image of feminine frailty: small, and narrow, with skin like the milk-ivory-marble-cliché of the romance novels in grandmother's room. Fine bones and finer skin grow into a thickly furred hand--as dark as the girlcreature's hair, darker, and matted with dirt and blood--that disappears beneath the hem of Ghost's shirt.

Ghost's closet is full of these: pastel shirts, clothes the colour of diluted vibrancy, all of them intended to be layered one upon the next. Ghost can see the sharp rise of knuckles beneath her little girl's shirt, the shirt grandmother spent all afternoon sewing, the shirt that Ghost doesn't like at all. Ginger's nails scratch over Ghost's stomach--she might stop long enough to tickle, or long enough to tear Ghost inside-out--and upwards; upwards to that scrap of cloth Ghost's grandmother had pressed into her hands with grim necessity (that which all good girls wear, and no good girl will ever, *ever* talk about again).

"*Anything,*" Ginger says.

Like this, Ghost thinks: A hallway, bright lights, and Brigitte tall and terrifying. A gasp from the girl holding Ghost against the wall, hands gone weak with sudden fear. Like this: Brigitte's claws curled into the girl's self-consciously stylish shirt, smashing her back into the wall--thump, and thump, and *thump,* and blood leaves vivid trails along the walls. Like this: the girl's body limp and crumpled on the floor; Ghost walking away, Brigitte trailing behind her, big sister, loyal companion.

Ginger laughs. "No," she says. "No, like *this*":

(blonde hair shining through clumps of dirt)

(arms wrapped tight around her; whispers of comfort and forgiveness against her bent head)

(bloody palm pressed tight against her own)

(mouth lowered to an ever-widening pool of blood)

Brigitte, scowling, hands fisted at her sides. A rumble in her voice as she step forward, once, deliberate, and says: "this is the last warning you get." Tension rising, rising, and breaking as the girls gathered around Ghost step back and flee. Like this, Ginger says: and Brigitte pulls Ghost to her feet, and her eyes are soft, though anger lingers along the curve of her mouth. She brushes her thumb against Ghost's cheekbone, tender--so tender that Ghost's heart aches with the beauty of the moment--and leans forward until their lips brush together.

Ghost's eyes are wide, her breathing harsh. She doesn't feel like a fairytale princess anymore. She feels young, and confused, and this story is no longer hers. "What do you want?" she asks, because she will not say "go away, leave me alone."

Hooked fingers catch in her hair. "She could have loved you," Ginger says.

The girlcreature hates Ghost, and that makes everything easier. She is here, and real, and Ginger is not. She is not here, not real, and she is *wrong,* Ghost thinks: Brigitte is her loyal beast, and here, and *hers.*

"Are you sure?" Ginger asks, knowing.

"Yes," Ghost says, "yes," and hears something crash below her. Her eyes go wide, and she turns in her chair to look at the girlcreature. Ginger is all sharp teeth and wicked eyes, and she is real enough to have distracted Ghost from what she does have.

"Brigitte may have loved you," Ginger says, "but that isn't Brigitte anymore."

Downstairs, everything is still. The trapdoor is open (Ginger's nails had been trailing down her spine; Ginger had been murmuring in her ear; had she locked the cellar door?) and there are claw marks gouged into the surrounding floorboards. This isn't how the story goes, Ghost thinks, and clutches her shotgun--because Brigitte might have made a loyal beast, but all she has now is teeth, and claws, speed and strength, and *rage.*

She is crouched in the darkened doorway behind Ghost.

Ginger blurs into shadows blend into Brigitte, and Ghost brings her shotgun up as the creature leaps.

Brigitte has always been the heroine of this story, after all.


End file.
